


static palms melt your vibe

by owilde



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Flirting, Coffee Shops, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, borders on crack 'cause boy i can't do comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: The barista’s name tag reads “POE D.”, and a crudely drawn smiley face. It’s winking. Finn blinks, clears his throat, blinks again.“Hey,” Poe D. says, still smiling. “What can I do you for?”Finn looks down at his list.





	static palms melt your vibe

**Author's Note:**

> i love these boys sm
> 
> title (obviously) from panic! at the disco's "LA Devotee"

Finn’s sunglasses are pressing painfully against the bridge of his nose. He should’ve bought the Armadi ones, but Gucci had a sale and now he’s stuck with these painful, yet beautiful black shades. He’s sweating like crazy – it must be at least eighty-five degrees outside, and the sun is shining down from a clear sky.

Finn sort of hates his job. Mostly because working as an assistant in film production generally means he does shitty stuff, like go for coffee runs and hunt hours upon hours for a very specific prop that by the time he finally finds it, has already been replaced by something else, but thanks for the effort, really.

But it pays decently, and he gets to see all sorts of weird stuff and meet people that aren’t really famous but maybe they could be, one day, and it lets him say stuff like, “Yeah, I know Sarah Jefferson, I have an autograph”, when what he really has is an empty Starbucks spiced latte cup with her name on it.

So, it’s cool. LA is working for Finn, so far. He only regrets moving here about three days out of seven, which is less than half of the week, which he thinks is pretty good.

Right now, he’s working on the set for a weird indie film (he thinks it’s called _The Culling of Cthulhu)_ and someone wanted a coffee, which lead to five people wanting a coffee, which then in turn lead Finn to the Starbucks on Bluebonnet Boulevard with a specialised list on what, precisely, it was that everyone wanted.

There’s a sign outside which says in neat, pink cursive handwriting: _WE SPECIALISE IN YOU. _It’s sort of creepy, but it’s LA, so Finn shrugs it off and walks inside.

The place has air conditioning. Finn wants to say some prayers, maybe even collapse on the floor in relief. Instead, he settles at the end of the line and lifts his sunglasses to his forehead, wiping sweat from his lids.

Finn needs to invest in tank tops. They’re not aesthetical, but maybe he won’t boil alive in the asphalt jungle he’s forced to navigate on the daily.

The line moves fast for what is midday rush hour in central LA. Finn only needs to stand for about fifteen minutes, shuffling on his feet, before it’s his turn to order. He already feels bad for cluttering the line with his endless list of caffeinated demands.

The person before him moves out, and Finn stops.

The barista hits him with a million-degree smile. His hair’s tousled in a meticulously careful way, a few strands falling on his forehead. His lashes – well. They’re very long, Finn thinks, and maybe they shouldn’t be that beautiful _or_ fit his beautiful eyes, either. Finn has a lot of opinions on eyebrows, because he’s had to work amongst some truly horrendous eyebrows – and this dude has, in his opinion, the best brow’s he’s seen all week. And he’s seen Rey, twice.

The barista’s name tag reads “POE D.”, and a crudely drawn smiley face. It’s winking. Finn blinks, clears his throat, blinks again.

“Hey,” Poe D. says, still smiling. “What can I do you for?”

Finn looks down at his list. Why is it so damn long? He’s going to look embarrassing. “Uh,” he starts. “I’m working for a shoot, and they want coffee. So, I’ve got a list.”

Poe nods understandingly. He eyes Finn up and down, so subtly that Finn thinks maybe he imagined it. “Well, let’s hear it,” he says.

Finn consults the list. “One normal latte for Janet, one flat white for Pep, two iced caramel lattes for Rey and Terrence, and…” Finn squints at the paper. “And one, um, ‘triple espresso with as many extra shots as possible, unless those heathens are afraid of doing that’ for a… a Kyle?”

“Last one might be tricky,” Poe says, frowning like he’s truly concerned about this Kyle dude’s shot of death. “But I’ll whisk something up. Give me a sec with those.”

Finn gives him a second, and then some. He pockets the crumbled-up list and wonders, not for the first time, what sort of weirdos he works with, and why, exactly, does he continue to work with them.

Five minutes later Poe comes back to the counter with five drinks, all labelled and four of them put in a neat carton holder. “One latte, one flat white, two iced caramel lattes _and—“_ He hands the one extra to Finn separately, “—one triple espresso with as many shots as the health regulations allow.”

“And how many is that?” Finn asks out of curiosity.

Poe smirks. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to disclose that.” He leans closer over the counter, and adds in a stage-whisper, “it’s seven.”

“Ah,” Finn says. “Eight is where they draw the line?”

A shrug from Poe, too casual for him to not have to have been practicing it in front of the mirror. “Who knows with the government,” he says, like it explains everything. Finn supposes it kind of does. “I’m willing to let you know that I have, occasionally, given eight-shot-espressos under the counter for soccer moms and aspiring actors who look like they haven’t slept in a month.”

“And students?” Finn asks. He’s growing increasingly aware of the line behind him, and the sound of someone tapping their foot on the ground.

“And students,” Poe admits. “They’re the worst. _I’ve got midterms_ , they say. _I’ve got a dissertation_ , they cry. _Please, help me_. It’s kind of sad.”

Finn, who himself was a student who’d said precisely those things not too long ago, smiles and adjusts the coffees in his hands. “I know, right,” he agrees. He glances at the line behind him, and makes a face. “I’ll go, now. Thanks so much for these.”

He pays and leaves, realising only once he steps outside that he has no free hands left to push his sunglasses back down. He bobs his head once, twice, and they fall perfectly to cover his eyes from the scorching sun.

Today, Finn decides, is a damn good day after all.

 

***

 

It turns out that the “Kyle” who ordered a triple espresso with extra shots in it is not, in fact, called Kyle, nor what it says on the side of his cup, which is Kylie. Finn is now extremely aware of this, because Not Kyle screams his lungs out about it once he arrives with the coffees.

“My name,” he cries, “is Kylo! K-Y-LO!”

Finn doesn’t think spelling it out is necessary, but he doesn’t really know what else to expect from a man dressed in a dark cape and wearing a blonde, sort of low budget wig with odd strands of hair sticking out of it.

“Alright,” Finn says, as calmly as he can, like he’s talking to a rapid dog. “Here’s your coffee, Kyle—Kylo. Kylo.” He pauses, and because he has no sense of self-preservation, he continues, “is it an artist name?”

Kylo sniffles, and sips his coffee. He doesn’t even wince. “If you must know,” he drawls, draping the cape across his shoulders, “then yes. My real name was far too insignificant for me.”

“…Right.” Finn watches as Kylo nearly cocoons himself in the cape in an attempt to put the hood on. “Well, I hope you have a good day of shooting.”

Kylo glares at him, and Finn notices he’s wearing red contacts. “I never do,” Kylo tells him, very seriously. “It’s my part as a tortured artist, you know. We all have a part to play.”

Finn, despite his curiosity, doesn’t ask what Kylo thinks his part is. He figures he’s above that. He delivers the rest of the coffees, gets polite smiles from everyone except Rey who calls him a nerd, and then sits down in a free chair near the set.

As Finn watches, Kylo downs his deadly espresso and marches in front of a green screen wearing, inexplicably, the same blond wig from before and the cape, now with long latex gloves to complete the outfit. Finn thinks it looks hideous.

Rey materialises next to him, her iced caramel latte half-finished. “It’s stupid,” she says, slurping loudly on the coffee. “The outfit. He thinks he’s the next Andy Warhol, except boring and not as talented.”

Kylo’s yelling at an intern about the shade of his contacts. The intern looks mildly panicked, their eyes darting across the room as if looking for an escape. Finn feels a twinge of pity, but only a twinge. He regrets not getting a coffee for himself, too.

“What’s the movie about?” He asks.

Rey shrugs. “I don’t know. Some sort of a surrealist Lovecraft biopic, I guess. He’s Lovecraft.”

Finn frowns. “I thought Lovecraft had dark hair? And short?”

“Yeah,” Rey sighs. “The wig’s from his fiancé. Kylo thinks it gives him a good aura. He wears it in between takes only. Then he switches to a short, brunette wig. Don’t ask me why, please.”

True enough, Kylo rips the blonde wig off and carefully places it on his chair. Underneath, there’s another wig. It looks, if possible, even more ridiculous. Kylo takes a deep breath and walks in front of a green screen again, straightening his back. Someone calls the scene, and Kylo starts chanting ominously in Latin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be there?” Finn asks, staring at Kylo. There’s something entrancing about his performance – he’s begun to do elaborate hand gestures.

“I play his wife,” Rey says. “She’s dead at this point, the Cthulhu eats her.”

“I see,” Finn says, though he doesn’t. He glances at his wrist watch. “Well, I’m done for today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rey fist-bumps him and Finn leaves, bracing himself for the LA heat.

 

***

 

His apartment’s a piece of shit, because Finn’s poor and decent apartments anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Hollywood are ridiculously priced. He’d tried to get an apartment through work, but apparently, “he wasn’t important enough for that. Work apartments are for people like Kristen Stewart, and you’re like a Taylor Lautner.” He's fine with that, he supposes. Not everyone can be a Kristen.

Finn opens the front door, and a piece of ceiling falls down to his feet. He steps over it with a sigh and locks the door, though why anyone would want to rob Finn is beyond him. The only sort of valuable things he owns are a crappy TV that seems to only work bi-weekly and an old Mac that wants to compulsively reboot every half an hour.

Forgoing dinner because he already had a late lunch and his economic situation resembles The Great Depression, Finn flops down on his bed, face first, and yells a little. Then he rolls over to his back and lets out a long sigh.

Trying to convince himself that he’ll be an actor one day, really, I will, is getting more and more difficult by the day.

Even Rey’s doing better than him on that front. At least she’s had a few actual roles in actual movies – all Finn’s been in has been two commercials, one for a cereal brand and the other for flu shots. He’s hoping that hanging around different sets doing odd jobs, and sending out auditions at a rate faster than he should, he’ll eventually nail that one job that’ll set him for life. But who’s he kidding, really.

It’s stupid, because everyone in LA has the same plan, and some of them – most of them – have better chances than he does at succeeding. But if Finn’s anything, he’s not a quitter. And he’s only twenty-five; there’s plenty of time for him to have a breakthrough, still.

He sinks into the mattress, letting his shoulders relax. He’ll get there, he promises to himself. One day.

 

***

 

Rey calls him at six in the morning. Finn’s ringtone has been set to _LA Devotee_ , because he thinks he’s hilarious, so he wakes up from a deep slumber to the sweet tunes of drums precisely at the time when he least wants to.

“Mmh?” Finn hums into the phone. The phone’s resting on his ear as he lays sideways on his bed, hugging his pillow.

“There’s an emergency,” Rey says. “We need you.”

“Oh?” Finn asks, keeping his eyes closed. He was really looking forward to sleeping in a little this morning, maybe grabbing a coffee before work and talking to Poe. If he’s even working today. Finn has his fingers crossed. “What for?”

On the other end of the line, something breaks with a very audible and loud crack. Rey makes a dissatisfied sound. “It’s Kylo,” she explains. “He’s discovered that throwing props allows him to settle into the serenity of his role better. He’s going through all the breakable stuff.”

“Can’t they replace him?” Finn asks, desperately. His bed feels so incredibly warm and inviting.

“I asked that,” Rey says. “The director said he loves his passion and dedication. It’s unlike he’s ever seen before, apparently.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of more dedicated actors out there who don’t destroy sets,” Finn points out. He gives up on sleeping and sits up, still hugging the pillow for comfort. “What do you need me for, exactly?”

“Well,” Rey says, “he’s breaking the props.”

“You need new props,” Finn fills in. He’s so _tired_ of his _job_. “What sort of props?”

Rey starts listing things. Finn puts her on speaker and pulls out the notepad on his phone, typing it all up as she speaks. They hang up, and Finn looks at the list with quiet despair. He needs to deliver the props before twelve – it’s now 6:22.

He decides he needs a large black coffee, stat.

 

***

 

Poe’s working again. He waves at Finn as he steps into the mostly empty café – because this is LA on a Saturday and it’s a little before seven – and smiles. Finn allows this to cheer him up a little, before the impending doom of his current situation returns on full force and his own smile falters.

“Why so gloomy?” Poe asks, sounding genuinely concerned. He’s leaning his elbows against the counter, his chin resting on his palms. He looks gorgeous, and Finn feels sort of lacking in his ripped black jeans and grey T-shirt. Poe’s wearing an apron, because of course he is. He’s also wearing a shirt that shows off his arms, which Finn appreciates quietly.

“Work,” Finn replies. “I’ve gotta find a list of stuff for a set. It’s a nightmare.”

“There’s an antiquary not far from here,” Poe tells him. “My friend Rose runs it. You should check it out, might be helpful.”

Finn writes the name and address down. “I’ll stop by,” he promises. “Can I have a large coffee to go?”

“Sure thing,” Poe says, smiling. “What’s your name?”

“Finn,” Finn says.

“Finn,” Poe repeats. His smile deepens. “I like it.”

For lack of a better response, and because he's never had anyone compliment his name before, Finn says, “Thanks.”

Poe winks at him and turns around to make his coffee. Finn very determinedly keeps his eyes trained on the counter, brushing some crumbs to the floor.

“One large coffee to go,” Poe’s voice says, and Finn looks up. He extends his hand to take the cup. “On the house,” Poe adds.

“Oh,” Finn frowns, “no, I can’t—“

“Buddy,” Poe says. They’re both holding the cup now, their fingers brushing. “It’s on the house. Don’t worry about it.” He lets go of the cup, and shoots Finn a very disarming grin.

When Poe’s not looking, Finn drops the change he has in his pockets to the tip jar. He figures it’s the least he can do.

“Good luck on your prop hunting,” Poe calls after him as Finn’s halfway out the door. He salutes, and leaves with his coffee.

The cup has a heart as a dot on top of the ‘i’ of his name.

Finn smiles to himself, and makes his way to the antiquary.

 

***

 

Rose, it turns out, is very short and very efficient.

Finn shows her his prop list, which ranges from things like ‘Chinese Vase But It Can’t Look Too Oriental’ to ‘A Plain Mirror But Not Too Plain, You Know’. Finn most certainly doesn’t know, but Rose seems to catch on.

“It’s basic Hollywood,” she explains as she leads Finn across the antiquary. “They want authentic things, but make it too authentic and then it’s no good, make it too cheap and it makes the movie look like B-class production. I’ve been there, trust me. It’s very tedious, but I think I can help you.”

“Well,” Finn says, trying to keep up with her stride, “thank you, really, I appreciate it. So, do you need the list, or—“

Rose waves her hand in dismissal. “I memorised it,” she says, casually, and then abruptly stops in front of a plain looking table. Finn almost runs into her. She eyes the contents of the table with a frown for a while.

“Here,” she says and hands Finn a small mirror. Its surface looks dirty and a little bit too dusty. Finn looks at himself; his features twist because of a large crack that splits the mirror in half.

“You sure this’ll work?” He asks, rightfully concerned.

Rose nods sternly, already moving forward. “I know these Hollywood punks,” she says over her shoulder. “You said this was for a Tellingford movie? That’s precisely his style. All aesthetic, no class.”

“I take it you don’t like him, then?” Finn asks.

“Oh, no,” Rose replies. “He’s great. I’m a fan.”

Finn thinks he’ll probably never learn to navigate the LA climate at this rate.

He follows Rose around for the better half of an hour, collecting junk to use as cheap props. She gives him her professional opinion on all of them, which he appreciates but could also have done without, and by the end of it, he’s found everything he needed except for a white flower vase with exactly three cracks in it.

Finn pays for them out of his own pocket and wonders absently if someone’s going to compensate him for this. Probably not. He’ll just not eat for a few days, that’s cool, he supposes. LA is great, really. His job’s great, his rent’s manageable, he’s getting better at lying to himself by the minute.

Rose packs all the stuff in two plastic bags and hands them over the counter with a smile. She seems very real, in a way that not a lot of people Finn knows are – even, and especially those who boast of living to their truest selves on the constant.

“I’m glad if I was able to help,” Rose says. “Did you say Poe sent you?”

“Yeah,” Finn confirms.

Rose smirks lopsidedly, and in a knowing way. “I see,” she says. “Well, tell him I said hi the next time you see him, and that maybe he should stop by more often.”

Finn promises he will.

 

***

 

Rey’s waiting for him as he steps through the door of the warehouse at 11:50. She looks nervous; she’s wringing her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet, glancing around the set. When she spots Finn and his bags, her shoulders sag in relief.

“Thank god,” she mumbles, meeting him halfway. She takes the bags. “Martin’s been on my ass about this for hours – as if it’s my responsibility to take care of the props. Ridiculous.” She glances at him a warm smile. “You’re a lifesaver, Finn. Thank you.”

Finn smiles back. “Just doing my job,” he says. “Don’t even—“

His words are interrupted by an excruciatingly loud screech, and a smash. Finn looks over Rey’s shoulder. Kylo is holding a steaming hot coffee in his right hand, and his blonde wig on his left. On the wall in front of him, there’s a large red stain. On the ground underneath it, there’s a shattered wine glass.

Finn thinks Kylo’s been crying. He’s not wearing his red contacts now, nor is he wearing a wig – his black hair is resting as greasy strands just above his shoulders.

“Yes!” The director shouts with excitement. “That is _exactly_ what I want. Give me that anger, that resentment! A little bit to your right, if you would – yes, there. Now, go.”

Kylo starts delivering a monologue in broken French. He’s spitting the words out, glaring at the cameras.

“Why…?” Finn starts, then shakes his head. “I thought this was a Lovecraft biopic?”

“It is,” Rey says, sadly. “I’m still Sonia. If you stick around, we’re doing a scene later where he tells me about his new story whilst snorting cocaine, and I throw pans at him because he’s wasting our money on drugs. It’s all very tragic.”

“Sounds like,” Finn agrees. “Who wrote this, again?”

“You remember that Marilyn Monroe zombie film I did last year?” Rey looks at Kylo, her mouth pulled into a frown. “That guy.”

“Of course,” Finn nods. “Of course.”

His life is a joke, and no one is laughing.

Finn sticks around for Rey’s scene. She’s dressed in a 1910’s styled, puffy-sleeved pale blue dress, her hair pinned up. Kylo’s sitting by a kitchen table, pretending to eat porridge. He pours sugar on it, except of course, it isn’t really sugar.

Rey turns around from her cooking, holding a sizzling pan. She’s frowning heavily. “Oh, Howard,” she says in an odd accent that Finn can’t place. “What on earth is that?”

Kylo glares at her. “What do you know of earth?” He asks darkly. “You simple girl. What lies beyond the confides of the Providence are beyond our comprehension. The world is a web of deception and illusion, help up by the old gods and the new alike – and the monsters, for many there be.” He takes a spoonful of his porridge. “My role in this—“

“Your role?” Rey shrieks. “You’re a foolish man, Howard! I will not stand for this any longer.”

Finn thinks her delivery is very believable – better than Kylo’s sulking, at any rate. She starts throwing pans at Kylo, who hides his face in his hands and begins to weep.

They have a few more takes, before the director calls a break.

Rey walks up to Finn, grinning and sweating. “Was it good?” She asks. “Do you think my accent worked?”

Finn nods slowly. “Yep,” he says, popping the _p_. “Definitely. Of course, it was, uh…”

“Polish,” she supplies. “I watched a lot of YouTube to really nail it in, I think it paid off.”

“Mm-hm,” Finn agrees. He feels parched. “Do you have time for a coffee? Your treat, because I’m broke.”

Rey agrees.

 

***

 

Poe’s there. Finn feels an odd fluttering in his chest when he smiles at Finn over the shoulder of the person he’s serving right now, eyes crinkled.

Rey elbows him in the ribs as they join the line. “Who’s he?” She asks, not even trying to keep her voice low.

Finn elbows her back. “A barista,” he says.

“Duh,” Rey replies. “Who’s he to _you_?” At Finn’s silence, she grins. “Aw, you don’t know either. Give it some time, then.”

They move to order before Finn can tell Rey to shut it.

Poe, oblivious, greets them. “Finn! And a friend.” He smiles at Rey. “Good to meet you.”

“Oh, likewise,” Rey says. “I’m Rey. Finn and I aren’t dating, in case you were wondering. He’s single.”

Poe blinks at her, confused. “I… I wasn’t wondering, but, that’s… good to know?” He shoots Finn a _look_ , one brow raised.

Finn sighs. “She’s an actor,” he says.

“Ah,” Poe exclaims. He smiles again. “I see. What can I get you two?”

Finn orders a macchiato, Rey goes for a caramel latte. She pays with cash, and insists on tipping, which makes Poe look happy, which in turn makes Finn _feel_ happy.

They sit with their orders by a table near the windows. Finn looks out at the people walking by. They all look like they’re in a rush – he wonders if he looks like that, too, all gloomy and determined and deeply, horribly decaffeinated. He decides that he hopes not; he’s never really pulled off that sultry vibe convincingly.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Rey comments, sipping her latte. It leaves a foam moustache over her upper lip. Out of spite, Finn neglects to point it out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, pointedly looking away from her.

“Uh-huh,” she says dryly. “Sure, you don’t. When he gives you his number, please don’t freak out, and just let the chips fall where they may, yeah?”

Finn glances at her, frowning. “He won’t give me his number,” he says confidently, then feels bad, because _Poe won’t give him his number_. “And, besides, what makes you think I’d even want his number, hm?”

Rey quirks a brow, and smiles. “You’re like an open book,” she says. “And I know how to read.”

Finn swallows the childish rhetoric of _no, you don’t_ , and instead sips his macchiato. It burns his tongue, a little. “Finish your coffee,” he mutters. “Don’t you have a shoot to get to?”

“Kylo’s fiancé is visiting today,” Rey replies, sounding grim. “He’s a weirdo. Calls himself Hux.”

“Hugs?”

“H-U-X,” Rey spells out. “Like I said – weirdo.”

This small titbit, Finn thinks, explains a lot about Kylo himself.

 

***

 

When they get back to the set, Kylo’s throwing plates again.

“Oh, won’t you give it a rest?” A man asks loudly in a nasal tone. He’s lounging in Kylo’s chair, feet crossed, with a book on his lap. He looks like he stepped out of a Hot Topic catalogue, all black and no shape. “Imagine if you acted like this at home. Ridiculous.”

“Hux,” Kylo says. The name sounds sort of funny, coming out in his gravelly pitch. He’s paused his plate throwing to spare a glance at his fiancé. “I’m an artist.”

“Yes, well,” Hux sighs, “we can’t _all_ be successful. It’s not your fault.”

Finn looks at Rey as Kylo resumes throwing the plates around. He yells a little with each throw – Hux looks nonplussed, reading his book.

“So,” Finn says quietly. “This is the fiancé?”

Rey nods gravely. “In the flesh. You see why I wanted to avoid—“ A plate smashes near Hux’s head. “—this.”

Hux looks up from his book, slowly, looking unimpressed. “Are you done?” He asks from Kylo. “I came here to see you act, but not like a fool. It’s been forty-five minutes, and all you’ve done is destroy valuable property and increase my frustration.”

“Did the doctor tell you to watch your blood pressure?” Kylo asks.

Hux purses his lips. “No,” he says in an obvious lie.

Finn watches the broken plates with a forlorn expression. There goes his lunch money for tomorrow. Maybe, if he asked really nicely, the prop department – consisting of two men and a woman who keeps her fish on set in a little aquarium – maybe they would allow him a small budget, covered by the studio. If there is a studio. Finn’s not sure who’s funding this movie, to be honest, and he’s afraid to ask.

“Oh, good,” Rey says. Finn looks up to see Hux putting his coat on, and wonders what sort of a person wears a black trench coat in a ninety-degree heat. Then, what sort of a person is called Hux? Maybe the name’s ironic.

“I’ll see you at home,” Hux tells Kylo. “We’re having take-out. Chinese?”

“Sure,” Kylo agrees. “Don’t get the pork.”

Hux says nothing and leaves in a huff which tells Finn that he’s most definitely getting the pork.

“Charming,” he comments.

Rey shakes her head. “Weird attracts weird,” she concludes.

Finn watches Kylo put on his red contacts, now a shade darker than before, and silently agrees.

 

***

 

The next time Finn gets coffee, he gets a latte to go, and Poe grins strangely as he hands it over.

“I would say it’s on the house, but my boss yelled at me about that,” he says apologetically. “Sorry.”

Finn pays, and his fingers twitch as he hands the cash over. How much would he be able to save, if he just cut on the amount of coffee he drinks? Or if he bought a coffee machine at home? Or if he just admitted defeat and moved back to Wyoming, to work at retail and live a content life?

“I’ll see you later?” Poe says, and he sounds hopeful. All thoughts of Wyoming disappear from Finn’s head.

“Yeah,” Finn promises, “for sure, man. For sure.”

He leaves, with Poe waving him goodbye with a warm smile. Later, as he’s about to throw his cup away, he notices that there’s some writing on the other side of it. Finn stops to inspect; Kylo’s yelling in the background, and he’s aware of Rey crossing the room to meet him, but it doesn’t matter right now.

_Rey said you might freak out – please don’t. Call me?_

Underneath, there’s a scribbled phone number and a little heart.

Finn swallows, staring at the number.

Rey appears next to him, glancing at the cup. “Oh,” she says, casually, like this is no big deal. “I told you he’d give you his number.”

“Rey,” Finn says in a strained voice. “He gave me his _number_.”

“Yeah,” Rey agrees. “I just said that.” She pauses, eyeing him. “Don’t do the thing where you freak out – just take this as it is. Will it work out? Probably. Will it not? Maybe. Just stop, add his number and call him later. Go have dinner. Have fun, for once.”

Finn stares at her. “It’s not that simple,” he says.

“It really is,” she argues. “Look, here—“ She wrestles the cup and his phone from him, turning away. There's some clicking, and a beep. “There you go,” she says, turning back. She hands Finn his phone. “Now, you’re going to go home tonight, and call him, and let your heart take control for a while. Alright?”

Finn looks at the saved contact on his phone, exclaiming _Poe <3_

“Alright,” he agrees slowly. “Alright, yeah. I’ll do that.”

Rey smiles – Finn smiles back, and pockets his phone.

“Let’s go do your shoot, then.”


End file.
